Oh The Douchebaggery

I have been feeling stressed lately (see below post).
The world is just nuts and I have been seeking some kind of recourse for my anxiety.
If I had the dough, I could just throw caution to the wind, get loaded on liquor and drugs, flee to Vegas, and kill a stripper.

Been there, done that.

Time for something new.

As you know, I have taken to walking everywhere.
I am doing my part for the environment (hell, my mere presence outdoors is beautifying the neighborhood, zing-o!) while keeping my mind on leaves and pretty things rather than the current state of affairs.
But it's turning chilly and Providence is only so big...I'm getting cold and bored.

So, I decide to take me some yoga. Word.

I grew up on the ancient art of pretzling. My parents were hippies, tried and true.
So I am not unused to the exercise.
It has been awhile though, so I am unsure of what to expect for my first class in three or so years.

Let me tell you, when you have taken yoga from a ninety pound human contortionist in a dingy little mud hut in India, the paunchy nose-breather at the Y is not at all intimidating.
Dude teaches ghetto yoga.

So I situate myself in the back, because I am new and quite frankly don't want to embarrass any of my humble classmates with my skills, fo' realz. I kid! (no really, I kid.)

And I find myself next to "the talker".
This woman keeps asking me questions like, "He wants us to put our hand where?", "Is this supposed to hurt?", "Do you come here often?"...you get the gist.
All the while, every time we strike a pose, she is groaning like Monica Seles.

People keep turning around with a look in their eye that says, you are ruining my chi, bitches.

I am guilty by association.

And there was a mighty wind a'blowin'.
I imagine that 80% of those taking the class are vegetarians/vegans and because the class starts at eight, it's safe to say that a fair number of them had already supped. Surely some legumes were consumed. Any one could have been the guilty party.

But the aroma came from my vicinity.
Jesus H.

Ever feel like announcing aloud(much to the condemnation of the gaseous person standing--or as in my case, grunting and rolling about ,next to you) that you are innocent of the smell?
Like when you enter a public restroom after the previous patron has dropped the bomb and then you have to exit defiantly with that disgusted look on your face that says, "Not me!".